


serpents crushed under the heel of sleep

by bellafarallones



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-21 23:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11955420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellafarallones/pseuds/bellafarallones
Summary: He’d accepted a croissant, once, that Aziraphale had bought for him at a nearby bakery. The thing had burned his fingers as he’d pulled apart the butterfly-wing layers, forcing a smile to please Aziraphale. Then the delicate lattice of pastry had clawed at him as it went down. Of course it had. It was full of love: love in intention, love in gift and consideration.





	serpents crushed under the heel of sleep

Crowley dreamed of pits of writhing snakes, ready to mar a sinner’s skin with pairs of needle puncture marks, or else abandoned and starving until they turned on their own brothers. Black flies landing on corpses, laying eggs that hatched into thick squirming mats of maggots. Shudders of revulsion jolted him awake. According to the red glow of the digital clock on the nightstand, he’d been asleep less than an hour.

The nightmares got worse when he hadn’t been sleeping, and when the nightmares were this bad he couldn’t sleep. There was no way to win. So the demon sat cross-legged on his narrow bed and wrapped the blanket around his shivering shoulders. In the darkness and blur of sleep-deprivation, the tangles and creases in his sheets could be maggots ready to claim him a corpse.

Given his nature, he should have been reveling in horror instead of recoiling from it, but tell that to his shaking hands, his greasy, tousled hair, his red-rimmed snake eyes. Crowley and the other fallen angels were no better than the snakes in the pit. Eventually he’d accept it. 

He thought of Hastur in his square suit. Who would ever choose to wear a form with a smile that untrustworthy? He didn’t want to end up like that. Growing to tolerate Hell when he knew the beauty of the Earth, and even the beauty of an angel, was a scary thought in itself.

Only one entity could chase the nightmares away. The angel. He carried God’s warmth and light in him, the kind of aura that brought humans pure euphoria by proximity. The effect on demons, once you got used to it, was similar. When Crowley first Fell, he had forgotten how God felt in hellish isolation. Then, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, the fire had been terrifying.

There was something about the angel that reminded him of an eagle’s shadow overhead and triggered his serpentine instinct to hide under the nearest log. And even now, with all the glasses of wine and fine pastries downed between them, sleeping in the same bed did cause him to wake up weak and with the pounding headache of a nectar and ambrosia hangover. 

Times like this, however, the blessing of sleep would be worth the morning’s temporary pain. He forced himself to get out of bed, unlatch the window, and step out onto the roof. Flying was not fun when the darkness beneath him concealed a hell-hound’s claws, but the golden glow of Aziraphale, spilling out of his bedroom window like a midnight dawn, drew him forward.

Crowley touched down gently on the warm, dusty floorboards. Aziraphale slept in a huge bed, comforter as fluffy as clouds must seem before you found out firsthand that they were made of ice and mist. 

Discovering that things weren’t as nice as they looked had been a defining feature of Crowley’s long existence, now he came to think about it. But the angel’s bedclothes cradled divine warmth, and he wasted no time in peeling away layers of quilt and sheet to get in. 

“Crowley,” murmured Aziraphale. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

Crowley was feeling calmer already. Aziraphale’s heartbeat, his breath, and the soft noises his hair made as it rubbed against the pillow drowned out the screams. The ashy smell of angel crowded out bad memories. “Miss me?”

“Of course.”

Crowley’s knees tensed, and he curled up tighter. He couldn’t imagine Aziraphale missing him. The best moments of his existence were those spent out of his own consciousness. “Hold me.” He bit his tongue to stop himself from continuing, “ _ hold me and protect me and tell me everything is going to be okay.” _

“What?”

“You heard me. If you want. I can leave, don’t worry.” But Crowley made no move to get up. The golden glow of warmth and love was too alluring. God loved Aziraphale, and Aziraphale loved himself, and that love spilled out like an overfull cup of cocoa and Crowley felt loved too.

He never explained all this to Aziraphale. For all Aziraphale knew, it could have been a sexual thing. A demon creeping into an angel’s bed in the obscene hours of morning. Crowley was well aware of how it must have looked. 

He’d never give Aziraphale the satisfaction of knowing the truth. He hid his jumpiness with a slouch, his heart palpitations with well-tailored suits, and wide terrified eyes with dark sunglasses. Blond curls and cherubic cheeks bore smugness too easily.

Aziraphale’s thick arms wrapped around Crowley’s chest, pulling him closer. “You’re  _ freezing,  _ dear.”

“Why do you think I keep coming back?”

\--

Crowley woke up with a pounding headache. He could die here, he thought. With lead weights lining his limbs, perhaps the softness of blankets and angel could ease his way back to sleep. No. He had a job to do. So he hauled himself out of bed and staggered stiff-legged into the ensuite bathroom. The cold white tiles turned his slender form into a bear, emerging from hibernation onto crisp snow.

He turned on the tap and cupped cold water up to his lips to drink. It tasted stony, possibly non-potable. This was not a familiar city. But what did that matter? It slipped down his throat and dripped off his sharp chin. 

“Crowley?” murmured the angel into his pillow. No response. Crowley quickly turned off the water. “Oh, bother. You’re gone again.”

Crowley crept back over the threshold into the bedroom. The faucet had cleaned the gunk out of his head, or some of it. The angel was curled up into himself, blankets warped around him like spacetime.

“I’m still here.”

“Oh!” The angel sat up and held his arms out, beckoning Crowley to lie with him again. 

Crowley backed away. His headache hadn’t gone, and he didn’t want to make it worse. 

“Talk to me, please, Crowley. You were shaking last night.”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.” Aziraphale twisted the hem of a blanket between his doughy hands. 

“I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“It’s no trouble. Join me for breakfast?”

Dining with the angel was even worse than sleeping with him. Crowley needed to recover from the night. “Not breakfast.” But he couldn’t resist that smile, the way he looked with the sunlight caressing his cheeks. “Can you do lunch?”

“Of course! Wherever you want.”

“The park?” There Crowley could purchase a hot dog and contribute some minor malice in the form of perpetuating consumption of animals, fed with corn and suffering in confined spaces.

He’d accepted a croissant, once, that Aziraphale had bought for him at a nearby bakery. The thing had burned his fingers as he’d pulled apart the butterfly-wing layers, forcing a smile to please Aziraphale. Then the delicate lattice of pastry had clawed at him as it went down. Of course it had. It was full of love: love in intention, love in gift and consideration.

Clearly angels put love in everything, since Aziraphale could not have intended any love for Crowley, the undeserving snake-demon destined to writhe for eternity in the dust at the feet of his betters. He could only imagine what it’d feel like to be on the receiving end of directed love, rather than the involuntary drippings of heaven. 

“Noon works.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up. The pain got worse, like someone inside Crowley’s skull was trying to fight their way out with a sledgehammer, but he stood his ground. The angel gently took his hand. “I wish you’d stay to talk more,” he said. “It’s always nice to see you.”

Jolts of pain shot up Crowley’s forearm like someone was digging in the delicate veins with a scalpel. It had never been this bad before. He lost his grip.  “Oh, just kiss me, would you? It’d hurt even more!”

“Really?” Aziraphale touched Crowley’s cheek.

“It would,” said Crowley. The pain had turned him numb, and he felt a bit like he might pass out. He tangled his hand in the angel’s hair. Soft blond curls cut into his fingers like barbed wire. But Aziraphale, anaesthetized to licking hellfire, tilted his head and his lips slightly open.

They say you can swim in a volcano, but only once. Crowley turned tail and fled.


End file.
